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"A photograph is not only an image (as a painting is an image), an interpretation of the real; it is also a trace, something directly stencilled off the real, like a footprint or a death mask."
Susan Sontag (1933- ); in New York Review of Books 23June, 1977

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From darkness to Darkness; Only a
Little Light In-Between From the womb of Darkness
who we all call Night The mellow child in one
small blood-red orb Comes out to lit the world:
[a] harbinger bright; And brightens gradually up
to burn this globe. Unlike the serpent that doth
eat its eggs The sun with his own fiery
dish-like form Out-reigns his mother’s
pallid eastward dregs Waking the giant up and the
crawling worm. And thus the day begins like
a story short Where every tiny episode is
sharp And leads to one quick
end—the final part— Leaving the reader thirsty
for more notes from harp*. The afternoon stays warm in
luncheon hot And quick short naps like
nights of human life Rejuvenate the soul and the
sinewy lot Only to drain it all at the
twilight rife. When once a burning youth
feels hapless, cold Reclining step-by-step to
the foggy west Leaving streaks of red upon
the cloudy folds Abrupt, but soft and slow,
in move, for the final rest. So, thus the story, day, and
life is done The harp* with broken
strin…

"A photograph is not only an image (as a painting is an image), an interpretation of the real; it is also a trace, something directly stencilled off the real, like a footprint or a death mask."
Susan Sontag (1933- ); in New York Review of Books 23June, 1977